For the rest of the week, I manage to disappear—or, at least, I manage not to be seen.

It sure as hell wasn’t easy. I’ve gotten used to meeting up with Marijke in the morning or at lunch. I’ve become accustomed to walking by Joe’s locker during the day. Now I’ve had to switch up my routine to avoid these two people. It sort of reminds me of the plug-in GPS my mom keeps for road trips and the mechanical voice declaring that it’s “recalculating the route” when we’ve made a wrong turn.

My route recalculation involves a couple of strategic moves, but I manage to keep it going. The library turns out to be my salvation, which I guess isn’t that surprising. I spend mornings before school and every lunch sitting at the same round table in the back corner, partially hidden by a shelf of obsolete National Geographic magazines.

By Friday, I’ve managed to adjust to a new version of my daily routine. It feels less like hiding and more like reliving my past. I try not to think about that—about how things were before when I was invisible. If I’m being honest, I know that it felt good to be a part of something, even if that something was a failed plan at finding love. If I’m being even more honest, I really miss Marijke.

But I really don’t feel like being honest with anyone, especially myself.

So school has become uncomfortable for sure, but home has become downright unbearable. Apparently, Contractor Jim has decided to take up semipermanent residence in our house. I guess Mom isn’t worried about the impression she’s making on Mac anymore. He doesn’t really seem to mind, considering he’s gotten a handful of new DS games over the past week. Jim sure knows his bribery—at least when it comes to the boy sector of the population.

I, on the other hand, have been inexplicably graced with a gift set of sickly sweet body products that make me smell like a stripper. Not surprisingly, Mom loves them.

On Friday, though, I do something I’ve never done before—I play hooky.

“Mom, I just don’t feel well,” I complain, burrowing into my comforter and closing my eyes. “I need to take a mental health day. Get myself feeling better. I’ve just been working too hard.”

Mom lays the back of her hand against my forehead. It feels cool. Huh. Maybe I actually do have a fever . . .

“All right. Well, you have been working hard, I’ll give you that much.” She glances at the clock on my night table, then moves to stand up. “I’ve got to head to work. And I’ll be home late tonight—Jim’s taking me back to Skinners. Mac’s at the Burgees’ house for the Boy Scout retreat.”

“Sure.”

I roll away to face the wall and I guess she takes that as a signal to go. I feel her hover over me, then plant a swift kiss on my hair. Part of me wants to wince at the sign of affection. Another part of me feels like crying.

I don’t go back to sleep. Instead, I wait until the house is empty, then I get up and work on cleaning up the house. Since having Jim as a houseguest, my mom has let domestic chores fall to the wayside. Shocker.

The pile of pizza boxes by the recycling bin are evidence of our unvaried meal plan over the past week, and the sinkful of dishes is further proof of her neglect. It’s so typical. Every time Mom falls in love, the housework is the first thing to be forgotten.

So I clean the house, I work on my history project, and I do everything I can not to think about Joe. The Bikes for Tykes event is tonight. Just knowing I won’t be there makes the physical ache in my chest return with a vengeance. Then again, I guess this is how things work when I get involved. The SGA activities always end up the same way—I never get any credit and people don’t even remember I was part of the planning.

I used to be able to see the bright side of working behind the scenes. Now, somehow, I just feel bitter.

I sit at the computer and pull up the flyer I created for the raffle ticket sales. Looking at it, I remember Joe’s enthusiasm—how he’d been so pleased by my efforts. The way his eyes crinkled, the way his lips curled into a smile when he would look at me.

Damn. This is clearly not a distraction.

I glance at the clock—it’s not even lunchtime. I swallow hard and look back at the computer screen. I can’t keep sitting here staring at everything I’m missing, despite all my best efforts not to. I need to go lose myself in something. I need to find an escape that will shut out everything I’m trying so hard to forget.